


Don't You Fret, Precious Thing

by Sheba_Al_Hurra



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bodily Harm, Brainwashing, Caregiving, Daddy Kink, Disability, Drugging, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Forced Dependency, Jeremiah is besotted, Kidnapping, M/M, Maiming, Medical Abuse, Spanking, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26806912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheba_Al_Hurra/pseuds/Sheba_Al_Hurra
Summary: Bruce doesn’t know how much he needs Jeremiah, so Jeremiah is just going to have to prove it to him.  By any means necessary.“Jeremiah,” he said softly, voice bone dry.  “What exactly are you planning to do to me?”Finally, the grip on Bruce’s face loosened and the thumbs digging into his cheeks turned soft and glided over his lower lip reverently, like Bruce was some kind of holy relic discovered by a euphoric believer to be greedily cherished and guarded in a tower.Jeremiah’s face was all doting fondness and reverent adoration, his eyes soft with contentment.  “Why Bruce,” he said softly.  “I’m going to unmake you.”
Relationships: Jeremiah Valeska/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 23
Kudos: 124





	1. Liminal Periods

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neyiea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/gifts).



> Gift for the wonderful Neyiea who has written so many wonderful stories that I have greedily devoured and set my old writing passion aflame again. Thank you and hope you enjoy. Let me know what you guys think.

Oh _Bruce_ , sweet, precious, tricky little thing. He had been so _vicious_ earlier, so full of wrath and vengeance..but now here he was, as sweet and harmless as a lamb in Jeremiah’s- _their_ new home. Bruce’s snowy limbs were slightly bent, the white silken duvet keeping him warm….even the restraints were charming, white, silken things that kept poor Bruce from doing something drastic and regrettable. Jeremiah wound his arms around Bruce’s slight waist and pulled his darling in close, Bruce’s crown nestled underneath his chin, form pressed firmly to his own, feeling something like euphoria shoot through him as he smelled the sweet baby smell of Bruce’s skin. 

_This_ was what life was all about. This was how it was meant to be-how it was _supposed_ to be. Jeremiah felt a stirring of contented possession take him as he took in the sight of Bruce’s curls mussed on the pillow, his even, deep breathing, the smell of the baby lotion that Jeremiah had lovingly rubbed into him when he had finally managed to get him settled, the valiant little beast. It was a lovely picture that he could spend the rest of his life taking in; the cherubic curve of Bruce’s cheek pressed into the pillow, dark, thick lashes above, pouting cupid lips that were parted as if to beseech a kiss...which Jeremiah would happily oblige for the rest of his life.

It had been an ordeal, getting to this point...a year’s worth of planning, partnering with Strange of all the despicable people, holding Gotham General hostage...but it was _Bruce_ after all. He wouldn’t be won with anything less, the spoiled little darling and Jeremiah adored the chance to properly romance and court Bruce the way he deserved. The preparation phase was behind them now, however; it was far more fun for them to settle into the nest that Jeremiah has so painstakingly prepared. 

There would be a transition period of course...Spiteful, beastly, vicious Bruce would undoubtedly fight him every step of the way. Bruce was so stubborn, so _resistant_ , so unyielding. Jeremiah had _had_ to take matters into his own hands but in time....when the muscles in his arms and legs atrophied and he needed Jeremiah the way he should...Bruce would see in the tender way that Jeremiah took care of him that he loved him more than anything and that he was willing to go to any lengths to show Bruce that it was Jeremiah that he needed---even if it did mean temporarily crippling him in the process before he built him up even stronger, when they were bound to each other irrevocably and Bruce would be compelled to acknowledge their connection.

It would be a long, arduous task but Jeremiah was prepared--even if it took years to get to where they needed to be--which was not to say that Jeremiah wouldn’t cherish every second he got to spend with his darling sweetheart, and have him so deliciously vulnerable and needy that Bruce would never, ever, be with anyone else. Bruce was going to need him more than he ever needed anybody in his life and he was going to love him more than he had ever loved anyone else--and only him. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
Upon waking up, Bruce’s first thought was, ‘ _I should’ve stayed asleep_ ’ and his second, upon seeing the white, professional-looking restraints that bound him to the bed was, ‘I should’ve listened to Alfred.’ Jeremiah had taken Gotham General hostage--again and he would only be persuaded not to detonate the hospital if Bruce came before him alone. And so he had went to face the man who had declared himself to be Bruce’s Best Friend and--surprise, instead of enduring another monologue about their fateful friendship-- Jeremiah had skipped the foreplay and cut straight to the chase--spraying him full in the face with a knock out gas the moment he stepped into the hospital. Bruce had barely clung onto consciousness for less than a minute but he still remembered Jeremiah’s fond expression as swept him up in his arms securely, and thinking dazedly _‘I didn’t think this through._ ’

Evidently, Jeremiah _had_ thought things through. That was painfully obvious.

Even only being awake for less than five minutes, Bruce could tell that. The soft bed restraints, not handcuffs, that must’ve been ordered in advance, that bedspread that looked suspiciously similar to the one he had had when he was twelve--and in the closet across the room he could spy sweaters, trousers, and other clothes in black and navy. There was a railing all around his bed--the kind used in hospitals, as if he was some kind of invalid. 

Bruce felt a shudder go through him when, on second glance, he could see syringes and vials of _something_ on the dresser. The restraints he understood but why the railings? His reverie was broken though as a familiar-and dreaded voice was humming as it came down the hall. He tugged on his restraints but there was no give vertically-he couldn’t even sit up. As the humming grew louder and the footsteps grew nearer his panicked scrambling increased--he _had_ to get out of here before Jeremiah did whatever he was planning--until the door swung upon and Jeremiah’s beaming face seemed to smiled broader at the sight of him struggling futilely against his restraints. 

“Good morning, Darling. I hope you slept well. I have breakfast ready for you.” Jeremiah said fondly, holding a tray containing a bowl of what looked like porridge and a glass of orange juice.

“What the fuck do you want Jeremiah?” He was angry, and hating himself for it, trembling.

“Now Bruce,” Jeremiah set the tray down on the nightstand, obviously not worried about Bruce being able to knock it off the table. “I understand this is all new for you but you mustn't resort to such coarse language. It doesn’t suit you.” 

Jeremiah took the spoon on the side of the tray and dipped it into the porridge before holding out the steaming spoonful to Bruce’s mouth. “Now, open up precious.” 

Bruce yanked back as far as the restraints would allow-which wasn’t very far since he still couldn’t pull himself any higher than where he was propped up on his pillows but he could move a few inches laterally at least. Of all the things he had expected, Jeremiah literally _spoon-feeding_ him was not one of them. 

Jeremiah frowned at him, still holding the steaming spoonful of porridge with his hand underneath it to protect the bedspread from any drips. “That’s quite rude, Bruce. Stop being difficult and eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”

“I’ll say it again Jeremiah, what the fuck do you think you’re doing? “ A high edge had crept into his voice towards the end despite himself. Bombs he understood, threats were predictable, but this was just chilling.

Jeremiah smiled fondly. “I’m taking care of you darling.”

“I can take care of myself.” 

Jeremiah frowned again, before finally, with a look of regret, relinquishing the spoon and its contents back into the bowl. Jeremiah looked at him with a patronizing, indulgent expression--like how one would regard a particularly stubborn child that was insisting they could stay home by themselves. “Oh, _Bruce_ ,” Jeremiah sighed, and his hands darted out for him and though Bruce strained as far away as he could his face was held firmly captive between Jeremiah’s hands, his thumbs gliding over his cheeks dotingly. 

“I know you _think_ you can take care of yourself but you can’t see how ragged you’ve run yourself down.” Jeremiah’s eyes flicked up and down the length of him and Bruce shuddered. “Chasing common criminals and thugs who aren’t even worth your time for _Gordon_ of all people; you’re barely a shadow of yourself darling. You’re losing your strength, your focus, and most importantly of all you’re losing _you_ Bruce. Your _potential_. You’re so much better than all of them Bruce and the way things are going you’d have ground yourself to nothing if I hadn’t intervened.”

“I didn’t _ask_ you to intervene.” He cut in, tired of Jeremiah’s nonsense. “It’s none of your business how I manage my affairs or my health.” At this, Jeremiah’s fingers dug in cruelly into his cheeks and Bruce felt his eyes start to water. He was beginning to feel like he had made a mistake even engaging with Jeremiah. 

“That’s where you're wrong Bruce,” Jeremiah hissed, eerie green eyes locking with his own and refusing to break eye contact. “Don’t you understand the connection between us? _You need me_ just as much as I need you. ” Jeremiah was gripping Bruce’s face so tightly that Bruce was sure he would be leaving bruises later.

“And if I have to start from _scratch_ to make sure you become who you need to be, _so be it_ .” At that Bruce felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over him. _From scratch_. Something terrifying and unspeakable was building up in the darkest corner of his mind and he could barely bring himself to mouth his next words. 

“Jeremiah,” he said softly, voice bone dry. “What exactly are you planning to do to me?”

Finally, the grip on Bruce’s face loosened and the thumbs digging into his cheeks turned soft and glided over his lower lip reverently, like Bruce was some kind of holy relic discovered by a euphoric believer to be greedily cherished and guarded in a tower.

Jeremiah’s face was all doting fondness and reverent adoration, his eyes soft with contentment. “Why Bruce,” he said softly. “I’m going to unmake you.”

  
  
  
  
  


* * *

Bruce couldn’t stop shaking.

After Jeremiah’s horrifying declaration that he was going to _unmake Bruce from scratch_ he had all but flayed the skin off his wrists and ankles trying to get free. Jeremiah had appeared put-out at Bruce’s reaction--although not discouraged enough to not try to offer to spoonfeed Bruce again or help him sip the orange juice. 

Bruce had told him exactly where he could put the porridge and what he could do with the orange juice too.

At that, Jeremiah had stood up haughtily, grasping the tray with the rejected breakfast before making his exit. “Fine, have it your way dearest. But you have to eat eventually, and when you’re ready I’ll be expecting a change in disposition.” 

Well, he wasn’t completely wrong. Bruce would have to eat eventually. Although he could survive for weeks, possibly months without food, there was a great world of difference between simply surviving and having the strength to subdue Jeremiah and escape from a likely heavily-guarded compound. His stomach churned at the thought of him willingly allowing Jeremiah to _spoonfeed_ him but…..Jeremiah couldn't have picked a best-worst-time to kidnap him. He had already been sleep deprived for the last month tracking down Scarecrow, and he had been living off of coffee and fumes. Before his last patrol he and Alfred had gotten into a shouting match about how Bruce needed to put himself first and how he might be mature for his age but he was still a boy. 

Bruce felt himself burn with shame when he remembered how he had told Alfred that if he wasn't going to help him he didn't see the point of even coming home before he had stormed out to go on patrol again. Alfred no doubt thought that Bruce was just being too stubborn to come home--and would take a few days to blow off some steam before working up the nerve to come home again. He had even rebuffed Gordon when he had suggested that Bruce take a night off, walking away feeling offended and annoyed at being told to rest like some child. 

And, as much as he hated to admit it, he _was_ ragged from back to back patrols, with zero strength and no one was expecting him back home for the next several days at least. It was the worst possible circumstances for him to be kidnapped and it was almost as if…..as if Jeremiah had been watching him. Biding his time until Bruce was too weak and isolated to put up any kind of resistance. 

He had planned this. Months in advance at least and Bruce had given him the opportunity he'd been waiting for. If he wasn't already restrained and fatigued he'd kick himself--or scream himself hoarse. He had been careless, stupid, and most of all too arrogant and over-confident in his ability to keep himself safe. He had yelled at Alfred even. At Jim. 

He had refused to compromise for Jim or Alfred. And now, if he wanted to get out of this place _intact_ , he was going to have to compromise with Jeremiah. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


In the kitchen of the manor he had acquired Jeremiah sulkily sipped at the porridge that Bruce had so rudely rejected. And he had cooked the _real_ stuff too, none of that fake processed trash. He took another spoonful of porridge, letting the cinnamon and brown sugar taste saturate his palate. The porridge was hot, filling, and most importantly delicious, and Bruce wasn't able to enjoy it because of his damn stubbornness. There were so many wonderful things that Bruce didn’t allow himself to enjoy because of his stubbornness, so many things Jeremiah wanted Bruce to enjoy, to share with him. It was one of the things he planned to have Bruce become accustomed to. Jeremiah glanced at his wristwatch, the only timepiece in the whole manor. He had made sure in the planning stage not to have any clocks or windows in Bruce's room---he needed him to forget about the outside world and depend only on Jeremiah for a sense of routine and consistency. 

Jeremiah smiled, the routine he had planned for Bruce visualizing in his mind's eye. Breakfast together in the morning--and when Bruce had shown enough good behavior---in the breakfast nook, getting him dressed, _bathtime_...Jeremiah felt his heart flutter. It was now five in the evening and it had been a full twenty four hours since he had abducted him and eight hours since the failed breakfast. Bruce would probably be more amenable now--he knew Bruce and he knew that Bruce would eventually face the music--he had to eat eventually and keep his strength up so he could predictably attempt to escape later. An escape that would be foiled and that would be one of the many lessons that Jeremiah would instill into Bruce during this liminal period in their relationship. 

Besides, Bruce shouldn't have his gas treatment on an empty stomach.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm physically, mentally, and emotionally shot from block two exams (I'm in med school) but writing this chapter revives me. Enjoy guys.

The grumble of his stomach seemed to fill the room and mock him with a hunger that he couldn't do anything about. Not to mention how sticky he felt since the restraints prevented him from moving more than a few inches right or left and he had sweat through both the duvet and the top sheet until he had finally squirmed enough to kick them off for some relief. 

In his whole life Bruce could not remember feeling so helpless. He'd been handcuffed for hours, brainwashed by a cult, imprisoned in a cell, and tied to a chair--more than once--but he'd never been tied down for a whole day, not even able to lift himself up. Whatever he needed to do to gain Jeremiah's trust and give him a sense of security that he wouldn't make a break for it, he was more than willing to do so.

And he knew Jeremiah was aware of that fact as well. Jeremiah could’ve held him down and forced the food down his throat if he had truly wanted to. But he had left in a huff because he knew, damn him, that Bruce would do nearly anything to get out of the restraints. At this point, he might even  _ ask _ for Jeremiah to feed him.

There was a time though, when he wanted that kind of soft, tender intimacy between two people that came with sharing a plate, a home, lives...a time when Jeremiah had been close to him in a way none of Bruce’s peers had been. When had Bruce had a friend he could count on, that he could confide and delight in the kind of effortless, dreamy way Jeremiah had made him feel? The way he hadn’t felt in a long time, hadn’t allowed himself to feel since Jeremiah’s transformation. The betrayal had stung so badly, being able to share and laugh and learn with someone who was not his guardian. And as much as he hated to admit it, Selina, while he had forgiven her, would always be an ephemeral, unreachable creature that could never be held for long. 

Bruce had wanted to become invulnerable-so he trained harder, went on more patrols, and tried not to lean on people as much as he wanted to-on Alfred, on Gordon. When Selina had been shot- _ paralyzed _ \--it was because Bruce had been blinded by his feelings to see the changes in Jeremiah right in front of him. In the end it wasn’t even him who had saved her--he had physically brought the cure to her yes--but in the end the real credit went to Ivy. A serial killer and plant freak was a safer friend than Bruce Wayne. 

He wondered, sometimes, if he was actually doing any good in the city or if it was all just a vain effort so he could feel important and not give into the anguish that threatened to swallow him. What good had he actually achieved? It seemed that despite his best efforts the people he loved were the ones who suffered the most on his behalf--Alfred, Selina, Jim, and even Jeremiah before his transformation. Was Bruce doing anything of real import or was he just fooling himself?

And as for Jeremiah, what  _ did _ he want? What did he intend to do to Bruce? There was something unnerving and sinister about this room, something to do with the railings around the bed and the vials on the dresser. He was going to have to talk to Jeremiah reasonably, at the very least pretend he was considering what he was saying so he didn’t immediately skin his face and use it as a tea cozy. Jeremiah had always been insane but now he seemed...unhinged, so Bruce would have to tread very carefully around him from now on. Try and at least appease the smaller demands he would make so he wouldn’t feel the need to completely  _ unmake _ him as it were. 

It burned him to think about it, about debasing himself sso thoroughly for  _ Jeremiah _ of all people. But then again it was his pride that had gotten him into this mess in the first place, wasn’t it? It was only fitting for his ego to take a beating to get himself out. Soft, respectful, controlled, cold--that was the prescription. He could get out of this, he just needed to keep his cool long enough to fool Jeremiah before Jeremiah got to him too deeply. He took a deep breath. He could do this. 

Jeremiah was nothing he couldn’t handle. 

* * *

  
  


The rich, heady scent of fall spices, pumpkin and roast permeated the kitchen’s air as Jeremiah set about his last tasks for dinner. Butternut squash soup seasoned with cinnamon and cumin, a pot roast that had been simmering to tenderness all day, and a tall glass of cold milk that was already present on the tray. Even without fasting for a full day he could hardly imagine Bruce turning down this. He set the roast in the center of the tray and set the soup to the left of it before making sure he had the utensils necessary. He lifted the serving tray and made his way to exit the kitchen before stopping with a start at the door.

Ah. Silly him. He had almost forgotten.

Setting the tray back down onto the kitchen island, he had lifted the lid off before pulling out an amber vial from his breast pocket and tipping in a few drops into the soup. 

There. Now everything was perfect. Two milliliters of Olanzapine, an effective antianxiety and mild sedative medication. Not strong enough to knock Bruce out but just enough to set Bruce at ease and make him more receptive when Jeremiah explained how life was going to be from here on out. He had regretted his earlier rash action, gripping Bruce so harshly. Brutishness wouldn’t win Bruce over, only patience and gentleness could. Bruce was his precious darling, his  _ only _ darling, and he needed to be cosseted and pampered and adored. He made his way to Bruce’s room, feeling his heart flutter despite his resolve to remain in control of himself. He took a deep breath, hand on the handle, and exhaled through his nostrils before turning the handle and stepping into the room.

Imprisoned or free, exhausted or restored Bruce radiated regality. He was still tied down and propped upon the pillows but he held his head up high like a prince, chin jutted out impudently, and his eyes surveyed Jeremiah with cold majesty. 

Jeremiah’s heart tripped up in his chest, and he felt his face begin to burn with greed and covetousness. Noble, beautiful, lovely Bruce was his--all his and nobody else’s. He felt as triumphant as if he had stolen the sun from the world--or the moon from Gotham, a city where the sun didn’t dare rise and the only light was from its avenger of the night. 

Jeremiah cleared his throat, taking even, measured strides as he made his way to Bruce’s side.

“Good evening, Bruce. I hope the evening finds you well and has allowed you some time to reflect on your attitude.” Jeremiah set the tray on the nightstand, not trusting himself to look at Bruce quite yet lest he be crestfallen by what he found--or what he didn’t find--in his beloved’s visage. He took the lid off the tray and stirred the soup briskly before dipping the spoon, turning to Bruce and allowed himself to survey him. “I hope your appetite has improved. Are you ready to eat now?”

Bruce’s eyes still burned with pride and his cheeks were flushed, stunning in his rage. Bruce craned his head up to look at him directly, mustering every bit of dignity that he could, his dark lashes lowered contemptuously. 

“Release one of my hands.”

Jeremiah’s lips quirked, and he leaned forward one hand holding the bowl, the other holding the loaded spoon. “I’m afraid not darling.” Slowly he extended the spoon forward until it was just inches away from Bruce’s lips.

Bruce’s face became even more pink if that was possible and Jeremiah knew he would’ve waited a hundred years to see him this rosy and bashful.

“You can’t be serious.”

“As serious as a stroke darling.”

Bruce’s lower lip trembled and it almost looked like he was going to either try to bite at him in rage or spit at him in his spite. And yet, clenching his eyes shut, Bruce closed the distance between his lips and the spoon, lips just touching the spoon, and with a barely detectable shudder, sipped the contents of the spoon, his face pink and glowing and gorgeous.

Jeremiah exhaled a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, and felt himself possessed by a fine trembling. He dipped the spoon back into the soup quickly, holding out another steaming spoonful to Bruce’s lips.

“That's it, Bruce,” he breathed as Bruce sipped from the spoon again, still refusing to open his eyes. “There’s my sweet boy.”

Bruce’s flush darkened and Jeremiah felt himself clench in exultation and joy. Again, he dipped the spoon into the soup and Bruce would ever so barely touch his lips to the spoon to sip its contents, eyes still firmly shut as if he could block out the reality that Jeremiah was feeding him. 

Jeremiah chuckled when a few drips escaped from Bruce’s mouth, and brought the spoon down to cup them back into Bruce’s mouth. 

Jeremiah watched him swallow it down and could see that, despite Bruce’s stubborn refusal, that he was  _ enjoying _ the meal Jeremiah had made for him. It warmed him, feeling the pressure of Bruce’s lips and tongue on the spoon, watching him satisfy his hunger because Jeremiah was taking care of him. Watching him relax and enjoy himself because Jeremiah was taking such good care of his sweet boy. It made him feel like he was dripping with tenderness and adoration for him, made him want to cover every inch of him with kisses and tell him how much he loved him until his voice ran out. He continued to nourish his beloved until the bowl was empty and not even his incessant scraping of the sides with the spoon could scrounge another drop. 

He regarded Bruce warmly, voice fond. “Did you like it darling?”

“It was fine.” Bruce’s voice was, to his surprise, oddly neutral and could even be described as...relaxed in its lassitude. He was puzzled for a moment before he remembered the Olanzapine. Of course, it would have started kicking in around now. 

Jeremiah set the bowl and spoon back on the tray before taking the glass of milk and bringing it up to Bruce’s lips. This time Bruce didn’t clench his eyes shut or even look away from him, but regarded him evenly as he sipped from the glass. 

He lowered the glass to give Bruce a chance to breathe, and took the opportunity to dab at Bruce’s lips with the napkin he had brought, letting himself feel the plush softness of Bruce’s lips through the cloth. He brought the glass up again to Bruce’s lips but Bruce turned away.

“I’m done. Take it away.”

Jeremiah clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “You need to finish your milk Bruce, every drop now darling.” 

Bruce turned his head further into the pillow. “I said no, Jeremiah. Take it away.”

With the hand not holding the glass, Jeremiah took hold of Bruce’s chin firmly, forcing his face back towards him, eyes locking with those dark eyes of vengeful night. “Stop being willful, Bruce,” he said sternly. “Finish your milk.” He pressed glass against his lips, not hard but firm enough to know he meant business. “Dinner is done when I say it’s done and I don’t want to have to punish you on your first night home.” 

Bruce’s eyes narrowed and Jeremiah thought that he was going to spit the contents back at him, but instead he parted his lips and allowed Jeremiah to tip the rest of the milk down his throat. 

“There now, sweet boy, was that so bad?”he chuckled softly and pressed a kiss to Bruce’s forehead, letting his fingers card through the dark hair.

Bruce glowered at him balefully. “Is this what you wanted Jeremiah? To play private nursemaid with me?” 

Still petting Bruce’s hair, Jeremiah leaned forward, his voice breathing across his face. “Oh sweet boy, I have so much more planned than just that.”

* * *

Bruce had never been so enraged in his life. 

Of all the things he had ever been subjected to, this was without a doubt the most blood boiling, unforgivably power hungry maneuver he had even been forced to endure. It had taken everything within him,  _ everything _ , to allow himself to be  _ spoonfed _ . Only cold logic and his training stopped him from biting off one of Jeremiah’s fingers---and although leaving Jeremiah with nine fingers would be extremely satisfying it wouldn’t free him, and Jeremiah could very well immediately walk away and leave him to rot. 

It was cold logic that pointed out that it was his pride that had gotten him into this disaster in the first place, and it was only fair that his pride took a beating to get him out. At first with his eyes closed he didn’t have to see Jeremiah’s smug face every time he sipped from the spoon but it was impossible to ignore the reality of someone spoonfeeding him like he was a baby. He had never been so helpless and dependent in his life. Even when he had been deathly ill with pneumonia when he was seven he had had an IV that replenished his liquids. 

He was furious with Jeremiah but he was also furious with himself. At some point in the ordeal he had, despite his clenching, boiling wrath, felt himself relax and become at ease, and horribly, slightly  _ enjoy _ being cared for so lovingly. 

It was the first time in months he had been full and ate his fill, the first time he had been comfortable and well-rested even. He had  _ enjoyed _ the soup; it was warm and filling and rich--something he could imagine Alfred making on a cold day. And despite his hatred he had to admit that Jeremiah had been gentle and patient with him while feeding him-- _ indulgent _ even, one could say. Being called Jeremiah’s ‘sweet boy’ had made his stomach twist for reasons other than hunger. 

Even now, with Jeremiah’s fingers carding through his hair he felt cared for and safe, the odd lassitude that had crept over him like a shroud only enhancing the feeling. He felt like even if the restraints were released he couldn’t move, how profoundly boneless he felt. But even relaxed as he was he couldn’t ignore the pitted, cold fear deep down that told him something was  _ wrong _ . 

The fingers stroking his hair slid down and cupped his face gently, encouraging him to look up at Jeremiah, green eyes looking at him as if he were the last living creature on the planet. Jeremiah spoke, his voice measured and soothing. “I think it’s time we had a chat about how things will be from here on out, darling. How I’ve decided we can be connected until you become the man you’re meant to be.” 

He met Jeremiah’s gaze unflinchingly, eyes steely. “How?” he said lowly.

He would let Jeremiah talk. Better to be patient and let Jeremiah give himself away in his delusional monologue, let him think Bruce was indulging him; no doubt he would get drunk off the feeling and slip up. 

Jeremiah’s eyes crinkled up. “I’ve realized that I was going about things the wrong way earlier, trying to force you to accept a role you weren’t ready for. You rejected Ra’s, rejected your destiny, rejected  _ me _ , just so you could crucify yourself for Gotham’s miserable masses. The truth is you have a death wish Bruce--deep down, you know chasing down these common criminals won’t amount to anything in the long run. You  _ like _ that this is a slow death, you’re  _ glad _ that this crusade is killing you by a thousand cuts. The truth is you’re still that little boy helplessly watching his parents’ die before him--and never forgiven himself for it. You have survivor’s guilt of the worst kind Bruce.”

Jeremiah’s voice turned soft, his tone quieter. “You needed someone to take care of you, needed someone to help you heal the wound that the death of your parents’ left--and while Gordon and Pennyworth, may have ensured your physical safety and health they weren’t equipped to meet your deeper needs. But I can.” 

Bruce jerked away, furious and unable to be patient anymore. “Shut the hell up Jeremiah. You don’t know what you’re talking about. I think that gas has finally melted what was left of your brain.”

Jeremiah’s gaze grew lidded and his face took on a supercilious look. “I know enough. I know what it requires to become reborn. As an engineer I understand that to create something you must destroy what was before. And who better to remake you than I, your very best friend, the one who loves you best?” From the side Jeremiah opened up a black bag, similar to a doctor’s bag, and took out a grey, cylindrical gas canister, tubing, and, to Bruce’s horror, a nasal mask. 

“Jeremiah please, you don’t have to do this! We can talk about this, we can be  _ friends _ .” He begged, voice cracking. Whatever Jeremiah planned to do he knew that this, the insanity gas, could never be undone. “You don’t have to do this.”

Jeremiah’s face was a mix of pity and resolve. “But,” he said, inserting the tubing into the canister. “ _ I do _ .” 

“To become who you’re meant to be, the old you needs to be destroyed first. You’re like a crooked bone--you healed wrong and you’re weaker for it, crooked away from the path you need to be on.” Jeremiah began adjusting the nozzles of the canister, and Bruce struggled faster in his effort to escape, despite the lethargy that had taken hold of him. 

“And you think that that gas will do that? Making me insane won’t do that Jeremiah.”

“Oh, Bruce,” Jeremiah tapped his nose affectionately before pulling the nasal mask over Bruce’s face and adjusting it snugly against him. “Like I said, we’re starting from  _ scratch _ . Think of it like hitting a reset button. You’ll be pure, Bruce. You’ll be free. You’ll finally be purged of all the old wounds that crippled you, you'll be stronger, faster, sharper--and then we’ll be together the way we should be. You’ll be mine and I’ll be yours.”

“I swear to God, Jeremiah, I will  _ never _ forgive you for this. You’ll be dead to me.”

Jeremiah ruffled his hair gently, letting his fingers trail over Bruce’s lips, his expression the picture of a long-suffering saint. 

“This you, certainly. But I think the new you will have a very different outlook on me.”

And with that Jeremiah flicked on the switch on the canister and  _ Bruce screamed _ .

He bucked up and down, thrashed himself side to side, flung his head every which way but nothing would stop the violet gas from percombolating up the tubing and into the nasal mask that was sealed to his face. A sob tore through him when the gas reached him. This was the end, a fate worse than death, to become the kind of monster that Jeremiah was. If Jerome’s gas had turned the sweet, soft-spoken prodigy who was afraid of the world into a mass murderer what would it do to Bruce?

As the gas percombolated directly into his mouth and nostrils he felt his strength begin to bleed away and he could only cry harder as he felt his eyelids grow heavy and his consciousness soften. He felt hands-Jeremiah’s hands-undo the restraints on his wrists. Jeremiah’s hands slipped underneath him and gathered him to Jeremiah’s chest, rocking him back and forth, hushing him. 

“It’s okay darling, it’s okay. I’m here, I’ll always be here, and I won’t leave you. I’ll never you alone, my sweet, darling boy.”

The restraints were undone but Bruce didn’t have the strength to escape, push him off, he didn’t even have the strength to curse him. He could only breathe the violet gas in deeper, let more of it into his system, while the man rocking him cooed and kissed his hair. 

As his strength and consciousness bled away from him so did his rage and terror until his mind was one soft buzz and he wondered, before sleep claimed him, why he had been so upset at the person who held him so close and kept him so warm.

The last sound he heard was the humming of a lullaby. 

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeez, can't believe this story has gotten nearly 50 kudos so far. Thanks for all the kudos and reviews guys, it means a lot. This chapter is extra long to make up for the wait. Enjoy.

The soft white was a warm cocoon around him, soothing and healing. Pain, fear, hunger and time were a faded dream and there was only the whiteness and hum of snow. 

_Who was he…?_

_Who was he?..._

He used to be someone didn’t he? It didn’t matter. All was good and beautiful and safe and warm. But the thought persisted like a needy cat, nudging him over and over again in a bid for attention. 

_Who was he...who was he…? Where was he…?_

Somewhere warm. Somewhere safe.

The thought pressed against him firmer. _But where?_

_I’m home,_ he replied. _This is my home._

_Who was he?_

_I...I don’t know...I think I used to be someone’s son….I used to be someone’s friend…But I know I am home._

' _Wake up_ ', the thought demanded, ' _Wake up right now._ "

_I am up._

"You need to wake up Bruce. Wake up right now."

The thought was no longer a thought but a voice...a demanding one.

"Please wake up Bruce."

He was no longer a white buzz of snow, he could feel something clenching, something like his eyes...he had eyes...he had forgotten he had eyes, forgotten _what_ were eyes…

He had eyes. And a face. And a body.

And he could feel something in his hair, carding through his curls and smoothing his forehead again and again.

"Please wake up darling, I love you so much. Just let me know you’re okay, let me know you’re safe."

‘ _I’m sorry_ ,’ he wanted to say, ‘ _I didn’t mean to worry you. ‘I’ll try to wake up_.’

Everything around him was still white but the more he focused, the more he felt...something, some tightness, a clenching in his face, in his eyelids...and the white slowly turned to red and he became aware he was clenching and could see the blood vessels in his eyelids.

‘ _I’m fine_ ,’ he wanted to say. But no sound came out because his lips hadn’t moved. Dimly, he was aware of a rising awareness of himself, of his face, his mouth, his lips.

The feeling of complete peace was replaced with a building anxiety. He needed to move but he couldn’t...he needed to do _something_.

He started to shift, started to become aware of his face being held and thumbs were moving in small circles across his cheekbones.

“I love you more than anything, darling. Please don’t worry me like this. Wake up, wake up right now Bruce.”

“I’m awake,” he murmured. He heard a sharp intake of breath and the hands clutched him tighter.

“ _Bruce_ ,” the voice breathed. “Open your eyes for me darling.”

He opened his eyes.

Everything was a swirl of color at first and as he blinked the world came sharply into focus.

Sitting across from him, brows knitted together in concern, was Jeremiah.

“You wretched darling, you had me so worried. How are you feeling?”

_Jeremiah was here?_

That didn’t make any sense. Why would Jeremiah be home with him, why was he here, what had happened, why-

Memories came rushing back in a frenzy of images and sounds and smells; the restraints, the insanity gas, the lullaby…

“What did you--” he gasped, trying to find enough air, his mouth felt like sand, “What did you do to me?”

“Easy, Bruce.” Jeremiah rubbed his sternum and Bruce felt some relief from the crushing tightness squeezing his lungs. “Your body is still adjusting and you can’t rush yourself.”

“What did you do to me,” he wheezed, “I’m not-I’m not insane?”

“Of course not darling.”

“Then what--” Bruce gasped and broke into a coughing fit and Jeremiah hurriedly pressed a glass of water to his mouth which he gulped down immediately. He swallowed and felt better, the moisture easing the tightness in his mouth and throat.

“What did you do to me?” he coughed miserably.

“It’s like I told you from the beginning Bruce. We’re starting from scratch. Your nervous system, your muscle memory, even your speed and strength have been reset so to speak. You’re as helpless as lamb and twice as precious. You’ll have to depend on me from now on darling, until I feel it appropriate for you to have your strength back.”

“You _sick-_ ” he gasped, feeling the blood drain from his face, “you _sick_ _fuck_.”

Jeremiah clucked his tongue. “Language Bruce. Cursing is vulgar.”

_His language?_ What Jeremiah had done to him was the definition of vulgar. 

Bruce felt dizzy, felt feverish and hot and itchy and about to burst into tears. He dragged his nails down his arms, seized by a fit of trembling. 

“You’re a monster” he whispered, “you’re a goddamn monster Jeremiah.”

Jeremiah frowned and tried to smooth back his curls from his sweat-soaked forehead but Bruce flinched back, heart hammering in his chest. He wasn’t wearing his restraints, he realized. Jeremiah didn’t need them anymore. 

“Now Bruce I know this will be an adjustment period-it’ll be for both of us-but in the long run this is what's best. I only want what’s best for you darling. Besides I think this will be an excellent bonding experience for us. Think of it like a honeymoon.”

_A honeymoon_. Jesus, fuck, Jeremiah was sicker than Jerome hands down. 

“You sick fuck,” Bruce croaked, because he couldn’t think of anything else to call Jeremiah, “you fucking _crippled_ me and you think this is _what’s best for me_? I wish Jerome blew your head off when he had the chance.” 

Jeremiah’s expression darkened. “Now Bruce,” he warned, holding Bruce’s arms firmly, “I know this is new for you but that kind of language is unacceptable, and as your caregiver now-”

“As my _caregiver_?” he screeched. “You're a monster, a torturer, a jailer, you _mutilated_ me!” he shrieked. Tears were running down his face now but he didn’t bother to wipe them off. His trembling was all out convulsions and his heart was pounding in his chest and he could barely breathe. 

“You’re a monster,” he wept, shaking back and forth, “I wish you had just killed me.”

“Bruce, darling, no,” Jeremiah cried, and he pulled Bruce into his arms, and Bruce sobbed and tried to pull away but Jeremiah wouldn’t budge.

Jeremiah sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Bruce into his lap, running one hand up and down his back, and smoothing his curls back with the other. 

“Bruce, darling, listen to me,” he began, “this isn’t forever, it’s just temporary. Just your cocoon stage before you become something bigger and better. You need me darling, you’ve always needed me. This is just an opportunity for you to realize how much you need me. What we mean to each other. You may not think it now but one day you’ll thank me for this sweetheart.”

Bruce sobbed harder and Jeremiah simply held him tighter and began to rock him, back and forth in his arms. 

Bruce wept bitterly and Jeremiah kissed the tears off his face, still rocking him back and forth and safe in his arms. Bruce cried and cried and cried and Jeremiah continued to rock and comfort him, pressing kisses to his hair and humming the same lullaby that had stolen Bruce’s freedom.

“There, there, sweet boy,” Jeremiah murmured into his hair, “you’ll make yourself sick if you keep this up, enough crying darling.”

As much as he hated obeying Jeremiah, Bruce was running out of his steam. His sobs had turned into whimpers and the cascade of tears had slowed down to a trickle. He felt exhaustion sweep him and even though he had been asleep for God knows how long he wanted to go back to bed. 

“That’s my sweet boy,” Jeremiah chuckled as his tears abated and Bruce wanted to punch him.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, hmm?” At that Bruce jerked and Jeremiah chuckled again. 

“What do you mean?” he asked suspiciously.

“You need a bath silly boy, you feel like you went swimming and I imagine you haven’t bathed in a few days. You smell more than a little ripe to be frank.”

“No.”

“Sorry darling,” Jeremiah pressed a firm kiss to his temple, “but you’re not calling the shots anymore.” And with that Jeremiah stood up with Bruce in his arms, and Bruce squirmed to no avail.

“Put me down, goddamnit, I’m not letting you bathe me!”

“Don’t fuss Bruce,” Jeremiah said, striding towards the ensuite bathroom, “you may as well get used to it because this is the way things are going to be from now on. You’ll only make it harder on yourself.”

‘ _Fuck that,_ ’ Bruce though. He squirmed, tried to fling himself out of Jeremiah’s arms but Jeremiah just clutched him tighter. He railed his fists against Jeremiah’s broad chest but they bounced off to no effect and even he could see how flimsy his attack was. 

Dear God, he really _was_ crippled. It wasn’t some sick joke or prank, Jeremiah had _mutilated_ him-stolen the essence of who he was. He was Bruce Wayne but he was also something more, a part of him that had come fully alive during Gotham’s siege, that had been born on the night his parents were murdered. Bruce protected people, saved people, even people who didn’t deserve it.

Now he couldn’t even save himself.

There was a part of him, deep down, in the darkness of his being, that told him being a protector was what he was born to do, was his purpose in life. And Jeremiah had stolen that purpose. 

He was mutilated.

What was he? Who was he if he couldn’t protect people?

Above him Jeremiah hummed, and Bruce hated him like he had never hated anyone. Greedy, barbarous, monstrous Jeremiah had done this to him because of his selfish, pathetic desire for Bruce to depend on him.

‘ _Alfred should’ve beaten Jeremiah to death when he had the chance. I should’ve let Jerome splatter his brains out_.’ 

He wondered, even with his reduced strength, if he had enough power in his fingers to claw Jeremiah’s eyes out.

‘ _Better yet, claw out his heart_ ,’ a voice whispered. ‘ _It’s not over yet, your power is not gone forever. Let Jeremiah think he’s won, let him taste the sweetness of your love, and when he fully trusts and loves you, when he is utterly yours and has returned your strength, turn him into **meat**. Scramble his brains, cut his nerves, claw his eyes and ears out and leave him drooling in a wheelchair in Arkham. Make sure he is never able to cripple you or anyone else again.’_

After all, Jeremiah had already shown what he was capable of when he had paralyzed Selina, and Bruce had stupidly ignored that, ignored the pattern of Jeremiah’s cruelty. If Alfred had beaten him to death when he had the chance, Bruce would be on another patrol right now or with Alfred, making up after thinking about his actions.

Instead he was crippled, alone, and about to get bathed by Jeremiah Valeska like some invalid. This was all his fault. This was the result of his carelessness and childish idealism. 

In that moment he swore to himself that if he came out of this with his strength and speed back, that he would never, ever, be merciful to his enemies again.

Let Jeremiah think he won. Let Jeremiah think Bruce loved him. Let Jeremiah trust him. 

Because the minute he had an opportunity, Bruce was going to kill him. 

* * *

Jeremiah hummed cheerfully as he tugged the pajama top off of Bruce’s stiff torso, mussing up the dark curls. It gave Jeremiah a thrill to know that he was the only person who got to see Bruce so adorably disheveled. Bruce’s face however, was an impassive slab to match the statue-like stillness of his body. As if he had retreated into some icy fortress within his mind and was not really here with Jeremiah, in their home, about to be given a bath. 

He gave Bruce’s cheek a tap, “Don’t get lost in your own head precious. I want you to enjoy your bath.”

Bruce’s expression grew stonier if that was possible but he didn’t resist so much as be frozen as Jeremiah pulled down his pajama bottoms. Jeremiah felt his breath catch as he took in the sight of Bruce in all his glory.

Beautiful. Lovely. Stunning. The most achingly, tenderly beautiful thing he had seen in his whole life, Bruce, every pretty inch of him, was completely bare and vulnerable to Jeremiah’s eyes. All for Jeremiah. Only for Jeremiah. His breath caught in his throat. His eyes devoured every inch of Bruce and still he stared with unabated hunger. As his eyes roved he caught sight of Bruce’s face. Still impassive and stoic but there was a fine trembling around his mouth. 

Jeremiah felt a stab of guilt. He had done all this so Bruce could depend on him, feel safe with him, not feel like Jeremiah was some sort of monster that was going to ravage him. 

Jeremiah cleared his throat awkwardly and broke his gaze from Bruce’s form. “Bruce darling, forgive me for so boorish. It was never my intent to make you uncomfortable darling. I’ll be more considerate from now on. Forgive me, won’t you?”

Bruce didn’t respond but the trembling around his mouth appeared to lessen a bit. Jeremiah wanted to curse at himself. Jeremiah brought Bruce to their home so he could be pampered, adored and treasured, not coarsely used. He needed Bruce to trust him, and ogling Bruce’s admittedly lovely form wasn’t going to build any rapport between them. From now on he would be more considerate. 

Jeremiah pulled a large, fluffy bath towel and draped it over Bruce’s shoulders to keep him warm and covered while the tub filled. He dipped his hand in the tub as it reached the halfway mark, increasing the temperature to just on the side of hot. Enough to make sure Bruce was nice and loose and relaxed but not scalded. Jeremiah tipped in a generous portion of pink bubble bath and smiled as the water quickly erupted mountains of pink foam that filled the bathroom with the sweet scent of hyacinths. Once the water had reached the top he turned off the faucet and looked over his shoulder at Bruce still sitting on the toilet, adorably wrapped up in the bath towel like a sulking toddler.

Jeremiah felt a dreamy smile spread across his face. 

His sweet boy. Daddy was going to spoil him so much. He wondered, feeling a little faint, if one of these days Bruce would look up at Jeremiah from underneath his lashes and say ‘Daddy, can you please give me my bath now?’ or ‘Daddy, won’t you read to me?’ or ‘Daddy, please sleep with me in my bed tonight?’ Jeremiah fought to control the strong feelings of desire and tenderness. This was about Bruce, not about him, he reminded himself, he couldn’t be selfish and gluttonous with own desires and make Bruce uncomfortable. Bruce came first.

Jeremiah knelt beside Bruce and took hold of the edge of the towel around his shoulders. 

“May I?” 

“You ask like I actually have a choice,” Bruce muttered, refusing to look at Jeremiah.

“Bruce,” he chided, “I’m trying to be considerate and make things easier for you. I know it’s hard right now but in time I know you’ll come to enjoy this. I’m just taking care of you darling.” 

Bruce stubbornly didn’t answer and Jeremiah rolled his eyes. So dramatic, so stubborn, his Bruce. He tugged the towel off of Bruce and scooped Bruce up into his arms.

Jeremiah felt a rush of tenderness, feeling the bare skin of Bruce against him. His darling, sweet boy, like a newborn lamb, naked and helpless and precious in his arms. He wanted to always keep Bruce in his arms, all soft skin and so precious, he could feel every tremor, every heartbeat; he felt like he would burn the world down to keep him safe. 

“You’ll never know how much I love you,’ he mouthed silently into Bruce’s hair as he took the few steps to the tup and, with painstaking carefulness, slowly eased Bruce into the pink foam, watching his face for any sign of pain or discomfort. 

“The water’s not hot, is it darling?”

“It’s fine.” Finally, Bruce was talking. Jeremiah felt himself relax a little at hearing Bruce’s voice. Progress was progress after all.

Cupping some water with his hands he wet Bruce’s hair with the bathwater before taking the shampoo from the bath caddy and squeezing out a blob onto his fingers. He hummed as he began to work a lather into the shiny, wet curls and let his fingers massage circles into Bruce’s scalp, letting his nails lightly scratch and he could feel Bruce begin to unravel beneath his hands. 

Jeremiah pressed a kiss to Bruce’s crown, letting the sweet smell of the baby shampooed Bruce saturate his nostrils and felt himself flush with joy, weak in the knees, before taking the shower nozzle to rinse the suds out of Bruce’s hair. And still, despite the obvious, physical signs that Bruce was relaxed, Bruce’s face was as cold as ever and refused to look at him. Jeremiah thought about winding a hand in those curls and forcing Bruce to look at him but banished the thought. He couldn’t give into his uncouth impulses now when Bruce was so vulnerable and helpless, otherwise Bruce really would think Jeremiah was some kind of savage. 

Instead Jeremiah pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers and took a deep breath. This would take time, it was all on him now and he would wear Bruce down eventually if he let patience and kindness take their long-term, cumulative effect.

As the last suds were rinsed out of Bruce’s hair, leaving it shiny and sweet Jeremiah grabbed the bath sponge and splurted the soap into it, working up a lather before bringing it to the back of Bruce’s neck. 

Bruce tensed a bit at first at the feeling of the sponge against his neck but Jeremiah’s careful, repetitive ministrations had him easing again under his touch. Jeremiah meticulously scrubbed the sponge in firm sweeps and circles across the expanse of Bruce’s skin, and was as transfixed as an artist painting a masterpiece. Down the delicate neck, across the elegant shoulder blades and further across the lean arms. As he scrubbed him Jeremiah noticed the scars splayed upon Bruce’s back and felt a surge of rage. Someone had hurt Bruce, someone who was not him had permanently marred Bruce whether through accident or assault and he felt his teeth clench. Never again would he let Bruce get sullied with unworthy trash. 

“Lean forward darling,” he instructed but Bruce remained still. Jeremiah sighed, feeling very much like a nanny with a sulky charge and firmly pressed the back of his neck until Bruce had leaned forward enough for him to wash his back. With the other hand not pushing his neck forward he made sure to scrub every inch of Bruce’s back from the top of Bruce’s neck to the beginning of his ass, leaving him thoroughly scoured and pink. Jeremiah was careful and thorough, firm but not punishingly so. Ideally, he had wanted to massage Bruce into a boneless mess but if he wasn’t willing to behave then Jeremiah would have to bully him a little. He did the same to Bruce’s front, down the sinewy arms that would soon grow soft, across the white expanse of his chest, up his neck and firmly scrubbed the rebellious face, giving his cheek a pinch before pressing a kiss in apology, and down his belly in circles, and smooth strides up and down his dancer’s legs, all with Bruce remaining as stiff and unyielding as possible. Finally, he took hold of Bruce’s thigh to lift it a little higher to scrub in between but Bruce snapped his legs shut, looking mortified. Something like panic had crept into his eyes and it made Jeremiah’s heart hurt.

“Don’t be afraid, darling. I just need to get you clean.”

‘I’m fine.” Bruce’s legs were still clamped firmly shut. “Don’t touch me there.”

Jeremiah frowned, his expression pained. “Darling, I have to clean you. Don’t make this harder on yourself.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed and the millisecond before it happened Jeremiah knew what Bruce was going to do. Bruce kicked the leg Jeremiah was holding up, striking him squarely in the chin and soaking him with his other leg’s kicking. Jeremiah was dazed and soaked for a moment before the sight of Bruce’s smug, triumphant expression made his blood pressure come soaring up to alertness.

“Well,” he said, sitting up and rubbing the suds out of his eyes. “I wanted to be gentle with you darling but if you insist on being treated like a brat, I won’t deny you.”

Bruce’s eyes widened for a moment, as if he regretted his bold move, but it was too late as Jeremiah clamped a steely hand around Bruce’s arm before flipping him onto his belly, cheek braced against the upper part of the tub. One hand laced into the curls of Bruce’s hair firmly, holding him trapped, pinned and unable to resist, and with the other hand he took the bath sponge and scoured Bruce’s ass and back of his thighs until they shined red-pink with heat. He moved his hand to spread Bruce’s cheeks and Bruce squawked, trying to squirm away. But Jeremiah would not be deterred and simply tightened his grip on his neck. 

“There are consequences darling, to our actions. Next time you’ll think twice before being beastly, hmm?” 

Bruce didn’t answer but Jeremiah didn’t need one and made sure, in spite of, or rather because of, Bruce’s desperate bucking, to thoroughly scour every inch of his ass and in between his cleft to his perineum. When he reached his genitals Bruce flailed harder in his efforts to get away but Jeremiah simply held tighter and scrubbed his cock and sac with the same thoroughness he had everywhere else, although he did take care to be more gentle with that region of his body. When he finally released Bruce’s neck to bull the bath plug, Bruce was flushed with rage and embarrassment, glaring at him with enough venom to kill him ten times over. 

“I could’ve cleaned that area myself,” he gritted out and Jeremiah quirked an eyebrow in amusement. 

“Really, darling? I’m sorry but your behavior would have me believe otherwise. If you had behaved perhaps I might have met you halfway but you surely don’t expect me to reward bad behavior do you?” 

Bruce said nothing in return; if anything the hate in his gaze only deepened and Jeremiah couldn’t help the smile that broke out across his face. Even if Bruce was being hellish and rebellious at least he was looking at Jeremiah. 

“Speaking of bad behavior,” he continued, taking the bath towel off the rack, “don’t think I’m letting you off the hook with that stunt you pulled. Once you’re dressed you’ll receive your punishment, so you can save your sulking for later.” 

Bruce scoffed and turned his head away angrily, to Jeremiah’s dismay, no doubt thinking he could take any punishment Jeremiah could dish out. Well, he was in for a surprise. Bruce could certainly endure quite a bit of physical pain but what Jeremiah had in mind was a bit more...emotional than what Bruce was probably anticipating.

Jeremiah wrapped Bruce up firmly in the bath towel, letting himself enjoy having Bruce so sweet-smelling and squeaky-clean in his arms, even if he was being a little hellion, before scooping him out of the tub, out the bathroom and striding towards the dresser. Bruce’s expression of scornful loathing turned to bewilderment as they approached the dresser and only deepened as Jeremiah set him on top of it before pushing him down with a hand on his chest to lay him down flush.

“Jeremiah, what are you-” Bruce began, bewildered, but no sooner were the words out of his mouth then Jeremiah had snapped something resembling a child’s safety restraint across his chest and lower belly. Jeremiah chuckled at the look of panic on Bruce’s face finding himself restrained again. 

“Don’t worry Bruce,” he took out a large bottle of lotion from one of the cabinets underneath, “I think you’ll catch on quickly.”

Bruce’s eyes widened and Jeremiah laughed, loving the adorable expression. With a generous plop of baby lotion on his hands he began rubbing it into Bruce’s skin, watching and reveling as Bruce flushed a deep crimson and did his best to squirm away from Jeremiah’s adoring hands in vain. 

Jeremiah began to hum, a habit he had picked up whenever he attended to Bruce and let the soft, powdery smell effuse into Bruce’s skin and into his nose. Bruce looked mortified but his expression turned to panic when he saw Jeremiah open a jar of powder and steady a hand against his inner thigh-once bitten, twice shy. 

“No, Jeremiah please, I’m sorry, I apologize for kicking you alright? There’s no need to resort to...all this.” Bruce begged, his voice cracking. 

Jeremiah chuckled. How many people could say that Bruce Wayne had ever begged them for anything? He pressed down more firmly on Bruce’s thigh to prevent him from closing his legs-he had learned from last time after all. Bruce probably thought that this was his punishment, sweet boy. 

“I told you I’m going to be taking care of you from now on and I meant it. Your new constitution requires more care than your old one but not to worry,” he chuckled, dusting Bruce’s cock with a generous sprinkling of talc, “I’m more than prepared to take good care of you Bruce.”

“You sick-you psychotic-you freak-” Bruce stuttered, trying to buck his hips away but the restraint across his hips kept him from shielding himself from Jeremiah. Jeremiah chuckled again, lifting Bruce’s cock up so he could also dust his sac, and-with an enraged shriek from Bruce-get a nice, generous dusting in between his cheeks. Jeremiah looked down fondly at his sweet boy, now so fresh and clean and velvety soft with powder, his face beet red, his chest heaving from trying to get away, his body trembling in fatigue after all his bucking, no longer possessing the stamina it once did. A few tears slipped down Bruce’s cheeks and Jeremiah found himself wiping the tears off his face tenderly, taking hold of Bruce’s trembling face in his hands before Bruce broke down into all out tears. 

“Bruce, my darling, my sweet, what’s wrong?” 

Bruce sobbed, the sound coming out broken and wheezing. “You like this, don’t you, you like humiliating me, hurting me. You were never my friend.”

“Oh, Bruce, sweet boy, no,” Jeremiah cried, pressing a kiss to Bruce’s hot forehead, “I love you so much, I just want to keep you safe and happy-” 

Bruce’s sob was an ugly, scornful thing, “Happy? What makes you think that any of what you’ve done would make me happy?”

Jeremiah felt his heart sink. He pressed a long, lingering kiss to Bruce’s temple, feeling stung when Bruce flinched away. 

“I know it’s hard right now but in time each day together will be bliss. I’m going to make you happier than you’ve ever been Bruce.” 

Bruce was still sobbing weakly but Jeremiah kissed his tears away, and began to dress Bruce in soft, yellow pajamas which Bruce did not resist. Jeremiah unsnapped the restrains and gathered his precious bundle in his arms-sweet, precious Bruce-and sat down with him in the armchair near the fireplace, tucking Bruce’s head underneath his chin, feeling the familiar flutter of his heart feeling Bruce’s cheek pressed against his bare throat, his trembling form soothed gradually into a lull by Jeremiah’s stroking his back. Jeremiah began to rock Bruce again in his arms, back and forth, pressing his nose into Bruce’s curls and petting his hair. 

“It’s been such a new, stimulating day for you, hasn’t it Bruce?” he murmured into his hair. Bruce’s sobs were quieting into slow whimpers as Jeremiah rocked and covered him with kisses. Bruce had been a brat certainly, a little terror that needed a spanking, but feeling his pain and anguish and sadness fade away because of Jeremiah made him feel like he couldn’t deny him anything, made him want to give him everything. Jeremiah continued to rock the both of them in the armchair and Bruce’s breaths evened out, body growing lax against Jeremiah and he nuzzled his face deeper into Jeremiah’s neck and Jeremiah felt himself melt. He had planned on being stern today, planned on laying down the law, following through on consequences begetted from bad behavior, let Bruce know he meant business and that Jeremiah would be calling the shots from here on out….

But he hadn’t accounted for Bruce being so helpless, so sweet and adorable, how much it would affect him. How could he have possibly prepared himself for Bruce nuzzling into his throat like a little lamb? He inhaled deeply, feeling himself cradling Bruce in his arms, letting his sweet smell settle into his veins. No, he wouldn’t-couldn’t-punish Bruce now. Bruce was obviously just upset and needed some time to settle into the new routine. Jeremiah stood up from the rocking chair with Bruce in his arms and walked over to Bruce’s bed. He would put Bruce down for an early nap, let him recover from the stressful morning, and then they could have a late lunch. Bruce was already fast asleep, so Jeremiah pressed a kiss to his cheek and tucked him in warmly, not bothering with the restraints. The careful part of him scolded him for his recklessness but he brushed the thought aside-Bruce was already too weak from the gas to run away and exhausted from the day and Jeremiah didn’t see why he needed to make his darling uncomfortable when he was already so worn out. Jeremiah yawned, feeling a little worn out himself-the emotional and physical upheaval of the day had taken its toll on him too, more than he wanted to admit. For a minute he thought about slipping under the covers with Bruce and holding him close like he had that first night but no, Bruce needed to trust him, needed to trust that Jeremiah wasn’t going to completely debase him and use him for his own vile purposes. Jeremiah would put himself down for an early nap too, right in the armchair, and when they woke up they would have a nice lunch together. Jeremiah smiled, letting himself settle into the armchair as he felt his eyelids began to leaden. Him and Bruce, all alone together.

It was like heaven.

* * *

From across the room Bruce slept in his bed, the picture of angelic innocence, curled up demurely, thick dark lashes and cupid lips. On the far side of the room as Jeremiah’s breaths became even and deep, Bruce cracked an eye open. 

Finally, the bastard was asleep. He sat up in bed, watching Jeremiah carefully as he surveyed his prison and looked at the door that had been left ajar by an overly confident Jeremiah. Taking a deep breath, Bruce braced himself on the bed railing before swinging his legs across the bed, using the railing to hold himself upright. Grimly, he realized that this had been the purpose for the rails along the bed-to be used as a support for an invalid Bruce. He glanced over to where Jeremiah dozed, not suspecting that Bruce had been playing him so he could give Bruce this exact opportunity. Slowly, with unsure footsteps, he made his way towards the door. The tears at the dressing table had been real-Bruce had never, ever in his conscious life been so humiliated and exposed-not only had Jeremiah bathed him and scrubbed his unmentionables, he had _powdered_ Bruce like he was a baby. Bruce ached a little from his raw skin and could still feel the powder in between his cheeks and felt a rush of anger and disgust so strong it nearly left him breathless. Jeremiah had _violated_ him, forced Bruce into accepting this unnatural, disturbing new dynamic between them, this horrifying intimacy, and Bruce had, Bruce had-

_Bruce had liked it._

Never, whether under pain of torture or on his deathbed or for world peace would Bruce admit that he had, to his horror, enjoyed Jeremiah ‘ _taking care of him,_ ’ had liked the bath, even when-or especially when-Jeremiah had spread his cheeks and scrubbed him firmly. The way Jeremaih had rubbed the baby lotion into his skin, soft eyes looking at Bruce like he was the only person who mattered with such tenderness. Bruce felt his stomach tense as he remembered how the powdering had made him feel-like he was something rare and precious to be cherished and protected. It was a rare feeling for him, as the lone protector of his dark island, to feel like he was the one to be protected-and the way Jeremiah had looked at him while doing so, like he enjoyed doing this for Bruce, doting on him, taking care of him-like he wanted nothing more than to keep doing this for Bruce-had dangerously made Bruce almost want to give in and stop resisting.

Bruce swallowed the lump in his throat, swallowing the stupidity that had to stay in this room when he left. His eyes darted to Jeremiah’s still dozing form, unaware of Bruce’s bid for freedom-Jeremiah was sick, more sick than Jerome, more dangerous, a boggy pit of insanity that would drag Bruce down with him if he let him, if he didn’t escape as soon as he could. He needed to forget about being held and how it made him feel, how being rocked to sleep made him feel-and get the fuck out of this madhouse.

Turning his back to the room Bruce took a look down the hallway and as fast as he could without making a sound, took off for the left corridor where he could see a winding staircase that was bound to head somewhere away from Jeremiah. 

* * *

Jeremiah yawned, letting the early afternoon light warm his face as he stretched himself out on the armchair, feeling blissful and without a care in the world. His eyes were still closed and the light made red and orange bloom onto his eyelids. He could rest a few more minutes before he got Bruce up and ready for the day. Maybe they would read or spend some time cuddling together this evening. He smiled at the thought.

He cracked his eyes open to see Bruce sleeping peacefully in his bed except-except-

Bruce wasn’t there.

His eyes snapped open and he practically leaped over to Bruce's bed, tearing at the sheets to see if he might’ve nestled deeper under the covers-but no, Bruce wasn’t hiding.

Bruce was gone.

Jeremiah rushed out of the room, into the hallway.

“Bruce!” he roared, feeling the house shake, “Bruce, where are you!”

Bruce had tricked him, damn him, the vicious little beast. Used Jeremiah’s affection and love for him against him like a drug, so he could escape, so he could get away from Jeremiah. Jeremiah cursed as he sprinted for the control room of the manor; he would see Bruce on the monitors and find him, catch him, punish him-make sure he would never even think of trying to leave Jeremiah again. 

Jeremiah yanked the door of the control room open, flicking on the lights to see where, where, where was Bruce?

_There_. On the far left monitor he could see Bruce-his heart skipped-downstairs in the main hall, trying to jimmy the main doors open with what looked like bent silverware.

_Oh, Hell no._

Jeremiah sprinted down the hall to the staircase, and as he rounded the banister he could see Bruce still working desperately on the lock, freezing as he heard Jeremiah coming down the stairs. Their eyes met and the blood drained from Bruce’s face, looking like a condemned man meeting his executioner. _‘Good,’_ Jeremiah thought _,_ Bruce should be afraid. 

Bruce dropped his makeshift lock pick and made a dash for the corridor, just as Jeremiah leaped down the remaining six steps to the main hall, and hurtled himself into the nearest room-a bathroom, Jeremiah remembered-and slammed the door shut in Jeremiah’s face, managing to lock it just in time, the click a mocking, cruel sound, as if to say, ‘ _see, back to square one. You can’t even catch me, let alone take care of me.’_

“Bruce,” he spoke, voice clipped and without a trace of humor. “Open this door this instant.”

“No.”

Jeremiah clenched his teeth, feeling heat begin to build behind his eyes.“If you open the door right now I promise to go easy on you.”

“Get fucked.”

Jeremiah felt his blood pressure rising and struggled to control himself. Of all the insolent, disrespectful, vulgar….

“Bruce,” he said, his voice ice cold, “I know every inch of this house and there’s no way out for you. I have a key on my person that I will use. Now, if you come out and apologize your punishment will be fair. But if I have to come and fetch you I promise you you will regret it for the rest of the night.”

There was silence on the other side of the door and Jeremiah ached to have his hands on Bruce again. To hold him, feel him real and alive and to make sure he never tried to get away from him again.

“Okay.”

Jeremiah let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Bruce had seen reason and would come out, and Jermiah would hold him, love him sternly, and forgive. Bruce had just needed a moment to collect his thoughts and realize how rashly he had acted.

The door clicked open and Jeremiah yanked the door completely open--even just a few minutes without seeing Bruce had felt like agony-he was never letting Bruce out of his sight again-and oh, Bruce-the sight of him standing there in the bathroom with his arms at his sides. Jeremiah reached out to tug him into his chest-

-and the glint of something shiny and sharp, something deadly, caught the light off his watch as Bruce drew back his arm to strike him in the falseness of an embrace. 

Jeremiah yanked Bruce’s hand upward, squeezing his wrist and his fingers, until, with a cry, Bruce dropped the shard of mirror. One arm was enough to subdue Bruce now, pin both arms to his sides and keep him close, the other hand twisted into Bruce’s hair-the hair that Jeremiah had just scrubbed and petted and loved-and yanked it upwards so Bruce would have to face Jeremiah.

“You planned to kill me, Bruce?”

“Maybe. Maybe I just want to _unmake_ you. Maybe you should _thank me,_ precious.”

Jeremiah flinched at his words being thrown back at him and his grip on Bruce tightened.

His eyes grew lidded and he regarded Bruce with a supercilious, calculating look. He pressed his lips to Bruce’s forehead, feeling relief flood him at being able to touch him again.

“I’ve been too kind,” he murmured into Bruce’s skin, and Bruce tensed. “If I had punished you immediately after your misbehavior this morning, the consequences would’ve been made clear and you wouldn’t have been emboldened to cook up this scheme.”

Something in his eyes must’ve scared Bruce because he started squirming in earnest to escape. Jeremiah chuckled coldly and held him tighter, and bodily lifted him off the floor, taking them back towards the bedroom.

Bruce fought, twisted and even screamed his voice hoarse-not that it would do any good, there was no one for miles except his lackies outside-but eventually he was all trembling limbs and ragged breathing against Jeremiah’s unyielding form. Jeremiah smiled grimly; ah, the beauty of having him so helpless-helpless against Jeremiah.

When he reached the top of the steps, Bruce was still kicking weakly and tried to make one last ditch effort as his bedroom loomed into view but Jeremiah held him resolutely. Bruce wasn’t going anywhere. He wouldn’t be going anywhere for a long time. 

The minute they were back in the bedroom he slammed the door shut, locking it with the key he kept on his person. Bruce was still swearing, still trying to get away but Jeremiah would fix that-Bruce wouldn’t ever try to get away from him again.

He dragged Bruce to the arm chair-the same arm chair where he had rocked him, where Bruce had gotten under his defenses and deceived him-and yanked Bruce across his thighs, pinning his arms to his back and keeping his thighs pinned with his calf. Bruce went frozen as the implication of what was about to happen sank in.

_‘Good_ ,’ Jeremiah thought, ‘ _let him be afraid, let him realize what happens if he tries again_.’

Bruce’s voice was tentative, nearly apologetic. “Jeremiah, what do you think you’re doing?”

“Making sure the message sticks.” And without warning or fanfare Jeremiah’s palm connected with Bruce’s ass in a satisfying crack that echoed throughout the room. Bruce yelped, whether out of sheer shock or actual pain he couldn’t be sure, but he did know that Bruce would only be howling in pain soon enough. He raised his hand again, and let it strike even harder than before at the exact same spot and he could feel Bruce wince a little. The slaps came down harder and faster and Bruce began to kick and squirm, anything to escape the fiery rain of smacks against his ass. 

‘You tricked me, you wicked boy,” he murmured as he laid down a vicious slap that had Bruce trembling, “but you won’t be tricking me again. From now on punishments will be immediate and severe.” 

Bruce was trying his best to twist away from his palm but Jeremiah simply pulled him in tighter and he could feel Bruce’s chest beginning to shake. 

“Did you really expect me to just accept this bullshit?” Brucee yelled and Jeremiah observed with a twinge of satisfaction that he could hear a strain in Bruce’s voice, 

“you _mutilated_ me! You’re a monster! I wish Jerome had--” 

But Bruce was cut off by the almost crushing pressure that squeezed the air out of his lungs and if the spanks had hurt before Jeremiah delivered a slap so strong and powerful that it left him gasping, eyes watering up in pain. 

“You wish _what_ , Bruce?” Jeremiah hissed, striking him with so much force his hand stung, “why don’t you tell me how you _truly_ feel.”

A whimper escaped from Bruce and Jeremiah felt a little mollified by it. Bruce should be sorry. He loved Bruce so much, every bit of him ached out of love for him, and even this, discipling him, was an act of Jeremiah’s love. Bruce would come to see things Jeremiah’s way. Jeremiah would make him see things his way even if it took years, the rest of his life, to get him there. He had hurt Bruce when he shot that street rat to make him see he didn’t need her, he had hurt Bruce when he tortured the butler, he would hurt Bruce again, but not out of malice, only out of love for Bruce. One day Bruce would understand. Bruce would forgive him just like Jeremiah had forgiven Bruce for rejecting him over and over again.

Against his thighs he could feel Bruce’s chest tighten like he was trying to hold back tears and Jeremiah smiled grimly. 

“I wish we never met,” Bruce warbled, voice breaking and throat tight, “I wish I had never let you trick me, I wish I had seen what you really were before you hurt Selina and Alfred,” Bruce lowered his head into Jeremiah’s thigh, hiding his face, “I wish you had just killed me.” 

If Bruce said anything after that Jeremiah couldn’t be sure because he had brought his hand down so hard on Bruce’s ass the sound seemed to shake the whole house.

“Don’t you _ever_ say something like that again,” he hissed, making sure to strike his ass just as hard and rained down his slaps faster on his sit spots and he heard Bruce finally break out in a sob and Jeremiah felt a grim sense of victory. “Try to run away again, and I assure you this will feel like a caress.” 

Bruce began to shake, mouthing against his thighs and Jeremiah felt his heart flutter a bit but kept up his onslaught and Bruce was now bucking with all his might. Bruce wailed when Jeremiah struck him particularly hard and seemed to break a little.

“Jeremiah please! Let me up! I want up!” he wailed, tears streaming down his face.

“Oh, I know you do Bruce, but unfortunately I’m not letting you up until I think you’re properly sorry.” Jeremiah could feel his hand beginning to burn and his arm ached but he could only imagine how Bruce’s ass felt. Bruce was openly weeping now, bawling into Jermeaih’s thighs and he didn’t even have the energy to squirm anymore, only able to take the spanking that Jeremiah dealt out. With a final, sharp spank against his ass, Jeremiah finally stopped, and he could feel the heat radiate through Bruce’s pants. Bruce continued to sob against him, not acknowledging the finished spanking or even attempting to get away now that Jeremiah had released his wrists. Jeremiah began to stroke his back and rear, making soothing sounds, shushing Bruce. “It’s alright now, Bruce, we’re finished now.”

Bruce sobbed harder. Jeremiah pulled Bruce from under his arms and sat him up, Bruce flinching as he did so, and Jeremiah wiped the tears from his face. “Bruce, what do we say, when we’ve misbehaved?”

“I-I don’t know,” Bruce choked out.

“What do we say,” he repeated, “when we’ve been naughty?” he continued to rub Bruce’s back in small, soothing circles, guiding Bruce’s head to rest against his shoulder. Bruce continued to cry, a little less now.

“I’m sorry,” he hiccuped against his shoulder.

“For?”

Bruce didn’t say anything and Jeremiah tensed his hands around his arms, “ready for another spanking so soon, Bruce?” he murmured.

“For trying to run away,” Bruce sputtered quickly.

“And?”

“And for tricking you.” Bruce cried softly into his shoulder and Jeremiah continued to hold him, feeling his heart finally begin to ease from its earlier panic when he couldn’t find Bruce. He pressed a kiss to Bruce’s temple, holding him tenderly to his chest. The panic and agony was over and his darling, maddening boy, wicked, precious thing, was safely back in his arms again. 

“You’re mine, Bruce,” he said against his temple. “There’s nowhere you can go where I wouldn’t find you.”

Bruce’s only response was to nestle his face further into Jeremiah’s neck. 


End file.
